


What'll I Do

by tinzelda



Series: Stories with Titles That Are Corny Songs I Secretly Like [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Old Peggy Carter, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, winter soldier angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4325715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky starts to learn to function like a regular person again after shaking off his conditioning, and Steve realizes he has some issues to work out himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What'll I Do

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I could just leave poor Steve with the ambiguous ending at the end of “I’ll Be Seeing You.” I figured any realistic recovery for Bucky would take forever, and I wasn’t up to the angst-fest that it would become. But I couldn’t do it! I need my happy ending! They don’t quite get all the way there in this story, but they make progress. And there will be a third part to this. Eventually. 
> 
> Thanks a million to Pharis for reading through this monster (not once but twice), giving me lots of ideas about making it better, and catching my typos (any that remain are my fault!).

Only a few more boxes to go, but it was almost noon. Sam would be there soon. He’d insisted on taking Steve out to get a Christmas tree. Steve wasn’t sure if Sam was trying to inspire a little Christmas spirit or just goad him into unpacking the big pile of boxes that lingered along one wall in the living room almost a month after moving day—he needed to get rid of the boxes if he was going to fit a tree in there.

He grabbed the top box in the stack and slit the packing tape: cleaning supplies. He tucked them away in the closet and reached for the second box, which held a few pairs of shoes that he hadn’t missed. Maybe he should donate them to charity.

As he made his way through the stack, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that if Sam was trying to force him to finish unpacking, he was right about it—the room looked nice, and if Steve hadn’t exactly been depressed before, he still felt better about settling in properly. Not that there wasn’t another pile of taped up boxes still in the master bedroom, but this was a start, at least.

Steve hadn’t been back in the old place more than a few minutes before he realized that he couldn’t stay there. There were too many bad memories, and he couldn’t imagine Bucky walking in the front door. So he’d paid a fortune to have the whole place packed up for him while he looked for a new place. He’d found a nice two bedroom only a few blocks away from Sam’s, put down a deposit that very day, and ignored Sam when he asked what he wanted the second bedroom for.

The last box was heavy for its size. “Finally.” When he realized he’d said it out loud, he felt a little silly, but the stereo and the records had been one of the first things he’d unpacked so that he could listen to music while he set up the new place, and he’d been missing the end of the alphabet.

He stood up and slid the box across the wood floor with his foot to the shelves under the stereo. Kneeling down, Steve pulled out the first dozen or so albums, but rather than starting somewhere in the Rs or the Ss like he expected, the first one in the stack was Harry James.

Steve stared for a minute, feeling a little haunted before he realized what must have happened: the record had still been on his turntable when the movers packed up. He’d barely been home at all in the months after he’d found Fury in his apartment that night, much less spent time relaxing and listening to music. The movers he’d hired must have noticed the record when they were packing up the stereo and just tucked it in the most convenient box.

He shoved the album at the end of the row, after Paul Whiteman, tucking it deeper into the shelf than the others. There was no way he’d be listening to it any time soon, and he’d rather not look at it.

After a glance at the clock, Steve began breaking down the empty boxes. If he was quick he would be able to get them down to the recycling bin in the basement before Sam arrived. But it was no use—the song was in his head now: _Kiss me once, and kiss me twice, and kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time._

Steve strode back to the stereo and pulled out the Whiteman. His mother had always liked his orchestra, and he figured if he was going to be maudlin and listen to sappy music he should at least try something that would distract him from thinking about Bucky. He started the record and left it playing while he carried the flattened boxes downstairs.

He returned to the apartment with a few minutes to spare, so he pulled out the broom. As he swept, he hummed along with the stereo. He could remember his mother singing this song while she washed the dishes. She hadn’t been sad when she’d sung it, but now, really listening to the lyrics, Steve realized how gloomy they actually were.

_What’ll I do when you are far away and I am blue? What’ll I do?_

Steve swept bits of cardboard into the dustpan and dumped the whole mess into the kitchen trash.

_What’ll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?_

He got his jacket from the closet and grabbed his keys. Sam was always punctual.

_When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what’ll I do?_

This was getting to be a little much. Steve was missing Bucky—he was worried and lonely and feeling a little guilty—but he didn’t have to let himself wallow in it. He was about to shut off the music when the buzzer sounded, so he hurried to press the button and let Sam in.

Steve opened the front door a crack and pulled his jacket on. Sam walked in as Steve was lifting the needle off the record.

“Hey, man. How you doing?” Sam slapped Steve on the back. “Glad to see you still use this dinosaur, because I brought you something.” He presented a bright red album that read _Nat King Cole: Merry Christmas_. “It was my grandma’s. It’s not _quite_ as old as you are, but since no one else actually owns a turntable anymore. . . .”

“Yeah, okay, that’s enough of that.” Steve forced a smile. “Thanks, Sam.”

“You’re welcome. Just trying to spread a little holiday cheer. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

They were quiet as Sam drove them out of the city. Steve was still thinking of the damn song. If he wanted someone to tell his troubles to, there was Sam, always patient, kind, and willing to listen, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Instead, he summoned a cheerful tone. “So where are we going?”

“Upper Marlboro.”

“Upper Marlboro?”

“Yup.” Sam looked over his shoulder and changed lanes. “It’s out in PG County, near my sister’s house. They’ve got one of those cut-your-own-tree places.”

“I’m afraid I left my ax back in the barn.”

Sam laughed. “You don’t have to bring your own ax.” Suddenly Sam froze. “Wait, I hope you don’t have to bring your own ax.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Talking on the phone while driving is illegal in Maryland now,” Steve said.

Sam rolled his eyes—Steve had only said it to get a rise out of him—but set the phone on the console between the seats and poked at the screen. The sound of the phone ringing filled the car.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Naomi, it’s me.”

“Hey, Sammy. What’s up?”

“We’re headed out to that tree farm, and—”

“Steve’s with you?” Naomi interrupted. “Put me on speakerphone.”

“It’s already on.”

“Hello, Steve!”

Steve smiled. “Hi, Naomi.” He liked Naomi. He liked Sam’s whole family. They’d invited him to Thanksgiving dinner and been very kind to him.

“You’re still coming on Christmas, right?”

“Absolutely,” Steve answered. “Thanks a lot for inviting me.”

“Of course! We’re happy to have you.”

“What time should I be there?”

“Well, we’ll probably eat around five,” Naomi said. “But come earlier. The kids will be excited to see you.”

“That would be great,” Steve answered. “I’m looking forward to it. You’ve got great kids.”

“Wait a second,” Sam interjected. “Can I interrupt the love fest before we drive all the way out to the boonies unprepared?”

Naomi’s laughter sounded tinny on the small speaker. “Unprepared for what?”

“We don’t have an ax or anything, and—.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Sam huffed out a sigh. “What the hell do I know about cutting down trees?”

“They have saws there,” Naomi said, still chuckling. “An ax? Really? You think they let any idiot off the street pick up an ax? Start hacking away and cut off their own legs?”

Sam was laughing now too, and the smile on Steve’s face was becoming genuine.

“All right,” Sam said. “Thanks. Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

Sam hung up the phone. “Man, she used to think her big brother was the coolest, the smartest, just the best, and now any chance she gets she’s giving me a hard time.” He shook his head. “You are coming for Christmas though?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“And no presents, right?”

“Well. . . .”

“Steve.”

“I can’t come for Christmas dinner empty-handed.”

“C’mon, man. I told you—”

“Just for the kids.” Steve knew that Sam wouldn’t object to that. He complained about his family in good-natured kind of way, but he was devoted to them, especially his nieces and nephew.

The Christmas tree farm was surprisingly charming, a little family-run place with a hot cider stand and employees who actually seemed genuine when they wished you a merry Christmas. In no time at all, Steve was kneeling on the damp ground with a bow saw in his hand.

“Is this gonna fit in your living room?” Sam asked, looking up at the top of the tree. “They always look smaller outside, and this sucker looks pretty damn big.”

“I’ve got nine-foot ceilings.”

“How do you know that?”

“The realtor said so. Apparently people like high ceilings. It really just means it costs more to heat the place.”

“Hey, don’t start on that stuff, gramps.”

Steve smiled as he best down to focus on the saw again. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I was just thinking—how are we going to fit two trees in your car? Will they both fit on the roof? We should have brought my SUV.”

“I’m not getting a tree.”

“You’re not getting a tree?”

“What am I gonna do with a tree?”

“The same thing everyone does with a Christmas tree.”

“But I’m going to my sister’s.”

“So am I,” Steve reminded him.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But . . .”

Steve looked up at him. “This is another distraction tactic, isn’t it?”

Sam made a face. “Is it working?”

Steve thought about it. The Christmas carols playing on the loudspeakers at the snack stand had chased the melodramatic song lyrics right out of his head. “Sort of.” 

But on the drive back, Sam stopped trying to distract him, asking directly how he was doing. Steve really didn’t want to talk about it, and for a long while he didn’t answer.

Sam waited—he was a patient man—but he finally broke the silence. “Given any more thought to coming to a meeting? I’ve got a really good group that meets on Wednesday nights, seven o’clock.”

Sam had been asking him about coming to the VA. Not often enough so that Steve could call it nagging, but pretty regularly.

“I don’t know, Sam. That’s not really my thing.”

Sam gave him a pointed look before turning his eyes back on the road.

“I tried therapy.”

Sam looked surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Steve sighed. “In New York, when I first woke up. SHIELD kind of didn’t take no for an answer.”

“So?”

“So what?” Steve knew he was getting defensive, but he didn’t know how to make Sam understand.

“So what happened?”

“It was . . .” Steve stopped himself from squirming in his seat. “It was weird.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like your therapist?”

“He was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I mean, I’m sure he was a good doctor. He went to Harvard or something. I’m sure he knew what he was doing.”

“See maybe that’s the problem. At the VA, it’s not some Ivy League guy asking a lot of questions. Just other soldiers, sharing their stories. It’s just a chance to talk to some folks who’ve gone through the same stuff you’ve gone through.”

Now it was Steve’s turn for a pointed look.

“Okay, maybe not the _exact_ same stuff, but you know what I’m saying.”

“Maybe.” Steve let himself consider the possibility, remembering the meetings he’d eavesdropped on when he met Sam after work. It would certainly be easier to be in a setting like that than a fancy Manhattan office, with all of the attention on him. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

Maybe it would be okay. Obviously no one had experienced what he had, exactly, but the feeling of loss and how tough it was, coming back and trying to make a life again. They’d understand those things.

“You could just come and listen,” Sam suggested. “You don’t even have to say anything.”

Steve nodded. He’d said he’d think about it, and he meant it, but right now, even sitting quietly in the back row of the meeting room seemed like a few steps down the line from where he was. All he could think about was Bucky. Out there on his own. Steve had managed to get him to talk a little, rest a little, eat a few good meals, but then. . . . Steve was afraid he made things a lot worse before they left that beach house outside of Boston.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“When Bucky and I were in Massachusetts—” Steve felt his throat getting tight—it was humiliating. He had no self-control—not then and not now, and he was ashamed to tell Sam what he’d done, what he’d let happen.

He’d wanted to tell Sam. He’d tried several times in the past six weeks since Bucky left and Steve drove back to DC on his own, but every time he’d tried, he’d chickened out—evaded Sam’s questions by avoiding eye contact and giving vague answers. This might be easier though. Here in the car, they wouldn’t be interrupted. And with Sam driving, he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes fixed on Steve.

“I think I screwed up,” Steve said.

Sam sighed. “Just tell me what happened.”

Steve took a deep breath. “You know Bucky and I have always been close.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam said in his counselor voice, encouraging Steve to keep talking.

“We, I mean, I always . . . uh.”

Sam glanced at him before directing his gaze back to the road. “Want me to help you out a little?”

“God, please.”

“You’re in love with him.”

It took Steve a minute to answer. “Yes.” Nobody had ever said that out loud before. “Yeah, I—you knew?”

Sam shrugged. “I suspected. You seemed pretty damned determined to bring him back.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“Come on, I understand. But you know I’m cool with it?”

Steve hesitated. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him again.

“I said, you know I’m okay with that, right? This is where you agree with me and recognize that I’m a sensitive, modern man who’s comfortable with people of every race, creed, and sexual orientation.”

“Yeah, okay.” But Steve still felt like it was too hot in the car

Sam must have noticed Steve’s discomfort, because he let the issue drop.

“So what happened in Massachusetts?” Sam asked. “Did you tell him?”

“I didn’t have to tell him. He remembered.”

“Remembered?”

Steve realized that Sam assumed that he was pining away with unrequited love. “We were together, before. Since we were practically kids.”

“Okay, wow. I had no idea. So he remembers?”

“Yes, he—” Steve was embarrassed. “I think so. I mean, I . . . I’m pretty sure.”

“C’mon, just tell me. Why do you think you screwed up?”

“I . . . maybe I shouldn’t have let things move so fast.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

“I think he remembers just about everything. We didn’t talk about it, but we never really talked about it. It was just . . . how things were. He drove out to the beach with me, we found a place to stay, and the first night, he was so restless. He got into bed with me in the middle of the night, and nothing happened.”

Sam made a face, and Steve’s face flushed pink all over again.

“And the next morning he was gone,” Steve continued. “But I thought it was okay—that he just needed some space. I stayed and waited for him. I just had a feeling. . . . He came back after a couple of days, late that night when I was getting ready for bed, and he stayed the next day, all day long. He didn’t talk much that day. He barely talked at all really, but . . . I don’t know, he seemed better. Less jumpy. I bought him a toothbrush.”

Steve wasn’t even sure why he mentioned that, except that it had bothered him so much: he managed to talk Bucky into coming with him into town just to get some things for dinner. He left Bucky in front of the toothbrush display, and when he came back ten minutes later, Bucky was still standing there, his eyes wide and suspiciously shiny, and his mouth set in a tight line. Even the meager selection in that tiny store had overwhelmed him.

“He was better.” Steve repeated. He wondered if he was trying to convince Sam or himself.

“Okay,” Sam said quietly. “That sounds good.”

“Yeah.” Steve was breathing easier now.

“So what makes you think you screwed up?”

“I . . . well, that night . . . he—” Steve broke off and stole a look at Sam. He looked serious—he was listening—but he wasn’t disgusted or upset. So Steve just blurted it out. “He came on to me.”

Sam nodded. “Okay.”

“He—I mean, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to push him away. I was afraid he’d run. I would do anything to help him, and he seemed to want. . . . I’m sorry.”

“Okay, just hold on a minute.” Sam said. “I just want to make sure I get what went down. You slept together?”

“Yeah, but. . . .”

“Okay, you did more than just sleep?”

“Yes.” Steve was relieved that he didn’t have to spell it out.

“Okay, and you’re pretty sure he remembered that you two were together?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t force yourself on him?”

“Of course not.”

“Did he react badly?”

“No.” Steve forced himself to think impartially about Bucky’s behavior that night. “No, he was fine. I think it was comforting. He seemed less tense.”

Sam snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet he did.”

Steve’s face went hot again. “No, I didn’t mean—”

“Kidding,” Sam said, still laughing. “So he seemed better.”

“Yeah. That night. But then he left sometime in the middle of the night, and he hasn’t come back. It’s been six weeks.”

“But he was better,” Sam said. “For a little while at least. He didn’t immediately freak out and run out of the room.”

“No.”

Sam was quiet as he navigated the ramp onto the beltway, then he said, “Then maybe it wasn’t a mistake.”

“Maybe?”

“I mean, everyone’s different. You know that. And I have no idea what recovery is going to look like for him, but if he wanted to be with you like that? And he didn’t freak out? And he seemed comforted?” Sam exhaled loudly. “I’m having a hard time figuring out why it’s a mistake. I mean, to have that comfort? That human connection? I think he needs that if there’s any way he’s going to really make it back.”

Hearing it was a relief. Steve slouched in his seat, feeling stupid for not having confided in Sam weeks ago.

“I hate to keep bringing it up,” Sam said. “But this is the kind of thing we talk about at meetings. How to reestablish a connection with someone after what you’ve both gone through. Figuring out the ways you’ve changed.”

“Come on, Sam, I can’t talk to anyone about Bucky.”

Steve couldn’t imagine sitting in the meeting room at the VA, telling a group of strangers anything about his intimate moments with Bucky. It had been almost impossible telling Sam, and there was so much he hadn’t explained. It had been so surreal: Bucky creeping into the little cabin after Steve had gone to bed, sliding under the covers with him, coming on to him. Fucking him for the first time in seventy years without so much as kissing him.

Bucky had been strangely quiet too. He’d had always been talkative during sex. Quiet, of course, because of the neighbors, but constantly whispering encouragement and endearments. At the beach house, Bucky hadn’t said a word, though his hands had felt the same on Steve’s skin.

“I can’t,” Steve repeated.

“You can’t? Why the hell not? You worried about homophobia? Where’s the ninety-eight-pound weakling who stands up against the guy kicking sand in his face? I would have thought you’d be all over this.”

“It’s not just about that,” Steve said. That was part of it—Steve could admit that to himself—but if that’s all it was, Steve would be willing to stand up and fight. “I know we don’t have to hide like we used to. But footage of what happened in DC—on the street and on the helicarriers. It was all over the place.”

“You don’t have to bring up all of that. You don’t even have to tell the group who he is. We have pronouns for a reason. And this isn’t about his problems anyway. This is about your problems.”

“ _My_ problems?”

“You don’t think I see it?” Sam said. “I saw it the first time I met you. Lots of guys do it—push it all in, don’t let anyone see you’re hurting. You’re functioning, but just barely, and you’re miserable.”

“That was because I thought Bucky was dead.”

“Even if that’s all it was . . .” Here Sam paused to make it clear it didn’t really believe that was all that was bothering Steve. “You still have to deal with it.”

Sam helped Steve carry the tree upstairs before he left. “Remember, Wednesday at seven. Think about it,” he said. “Call me anytime.”

Steve felt okay about telling Sam. Maybe he was right—maybe what had happened at the beach house hadn’t been a mistake. Bucky had sure seemed better. How had Sam put it? Bucky needed that human connection to make it back. And maybe it was all right for Steve to admit that he’d felt better afterward too. It had reassured him that on some level they were still in tune. But they hadn’t kissed. He hadn’t even noticed at the time—he’d been overwhelmed—but now it bothered him.

He sat, lost in thought, for a long time before he realized he didn’t have anything to keep water in for the tree. And nothing to decorate it. He’d have to go out, and it was probably good for him to keep busy anyway. It was always better when he kept busy.

*****

Less than two weeks before Christmas, the holiday section of the store was picked over and disorganized, but Steve found everything he needed: a stand that looked like it would hold a lot of water, multicolored lights, bright glass balls, and a silver star for the top. There was a pretty good selection of wreaths left, and Steve considered getting one for his door before he realized that fresh greenery would be much nicer than plastic. He would stop somewhere later. Even grocery stores carried stuff like that now.

The next aisle had shelf after shelf of candy, especially for Christmas. It wasn’t enough to have M&Ms now—you had to have red and green ones for the holidays, even if they tasted exactly the same. He saw a box of candy canes and reached for it, feeling a pleasing nostalgia. Even when money was tightest, Steve had always gotten a peppermint stick in his stocking on Christmas morning. As he set the box in the cart, however, he realized that the candy canes were pink, green, and blue. Instead of mint, they were fruit-flavored.

Steve shook his head, but it made him smile. There was just so much available that he’d never imagined, so much of everything. Seeing the endless choices—this kind of affordable, frivolous luxury—was strangely reassuring. Things couldn’t be all bad if people had time and resources to devote to this kind of thing. Once he’d gotten used to the laughably reduced value of a dollar, Steve had started to actually like going to stores like this.

After exchanging the candy for good old-fashioned peppermint, Steve headed up to the front of the store to check out, but on the way he got distracted by the displays of sheets and blankets. He’d already gotten a bed in the second bedroom, but it was sitting there where the delivery men had left it, the bare mattress bright white.

Steve hesitated. He had been afraid to hope that Bucky might someday be around to use the room. Not that Steve didn’t want to share, but he wanted Bucky to have his own space. Some superstitious part of him had been afraid that if he fixed up the room, Bucky would never come live in it, but after talking to Sam, Steve felt a little more optimistic.

“Excuse me.”

Steve turned and saw a little white-haired lady behind him. He was blocking the aisle. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He pushed his cart out of the way and watched her toddle by. She didn’t have much in her cart: a box of Cheerios, a bag of oranges, and a carton of milk. He wondered how old she was—he couldn’t help but wonder when he saw older people out and about if they were older than he was, older than Bucky.

Once the old lady passed by him, Steve turned into the housewares, and it was like he couldn’t stop himself: he picked out a blue and green plaid bedspread, flannel sheets to match, and lots of extra pillows. He noticed some fuzzy throw blankets and grabbed a couple to toss over the arm of the couch, then headed for the next aisle to find a lamp for Bucky’s nightstand.

Steve imagined Bucky showing up at the door, appearing out of nowhere. Not that this was the first time he’d thought about this, but now it wasn’t just a fantasy—he was trying to figure out what else Bucky would need. He’d probably want to clean up. Steve had plenty of towels, but the ceramic tile in the new bathroom always felt chilly underfoot, so he found a fluffy rug to put down next to the shower stall. He bought a new toothbrush, a razor, a brush, a comb.

As he pushed the cart through the aisles, he passed the shelves displaying condoms. It made him pause. He’d learned about safe sex, but it seemed like a moot point for him and Bucky. There were bottles of lubricant too, though. After all of his worry over letting things get so far at the beach house, he still felt a little guilty planning for it to happen again, but it would be stupid to think he’d say no if Bucky came back and wanted to. There was an intimidating variety, but Steve just grabbed one at random, shoved it under the bedding, and quickly walked away.

Between his embarrassment over the bottle hidden in the cart and the endless aisles of the store—he found it hard to get his bearings without any windows—Steve ended up in the back corner instead of near the registers at the front. He passed the men’s department and grabbed some comfortable clothes for Bucky to sleep in: sweatpants and soft T-shirts. After a moment of consideration, Steve went ahead and picked out a few pairs of jeans too. Now that he’d started throwing things into the cart, it was easy to keep going. He wondered if maybe he should get something more stylish. Bucky always liked to look good, and Target probably wasn’t the height of fashion, but Steve was just as clueless as he’d ever been about that kind of thing, so this would have to do for now.

The cart was piled high by the time Steve checked out. As he stacked everything up on the conveyor belt, he was surprised to find the Christmas decorations at the bottom. He’d gotten so wrapped up in picking things out for Bucky that he’d lost track of his original errand. He was a little shocked at how much he was spending—maybe he wasn’t as accustomed to the prices as he’d thought—but he wanted to make things nice for Bucky. Not that he would run away if Steve didn’t have the right things, but if the apartment were really comfortable and welcoming, maybe it would help.

It took several trips to bring everything in from the car. Steve dumped all of the bags of sheets and clothes on the floor in the second bedroom and set up the stand for the tree. He didn’t want it getting dried out before he’d even had a chance to decorate it. Once he had the tree lined up straight and watered, he put on the Christmas album Sam had brought. It was good—mellow but cheerful.

He started on the lights, somehow managing to get the first string tangled the second it was out of the box, but he found himself thinking more about the things he’d bought for Bucky’s room. He’d intended to wait until the next day to get everything set up, but he wanted to wash everything first. It made sense to get a load in the washer as soon as possible.

A few hours later, the lights were half on the tree and half in a snarl on the floor, but Steve had rearranged the furniture in Bucky’s room so that there was space to bring in an armchair from the living room, made the bed, and even washed all the new clothes and put them in the dresser drawers. Just because the space was set up like this, it didn’t mean that Bucky would show up to use it, but Steve felt better knowing that he was ready.

*****

Sam was tidying up in his tiny office when Steve appeared in the doorway. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then a grin spread over his face. “Well, look who it is. I was wondering when you’d finally show up.”

Steve tried to smile, but he was ridiculously nervous. Maybe Sam could tell, because he stopped giving Steve a hard time and changed the subject.

“You get your Christmas tree up?”

“I did actually. It’s nice.”

“Good.”

Steve was too aware of the clock ticking on the office wall to make small talk. “Should we head down the hall?”

“Sure. Just let me grab a few things, and I’ll be ready to go.” He tucked a few folders under his arm, then picked up a stack of pamphlets and his coffee mug.

Walking next to Sam, Steve didn’t feel as conspicuous. As they approached the meeting room, however, he could feel the butterflies in his stomach waking up.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “You can sit in the back, not say a word. But you’d be surprised how much just being here can help.” 

Steve nodded and skulked into the room in Sam’s footsteps. Sam went up to the podium at the front, but Steve headed straight to the back of the room and sat on the end of the row. As people filed in, there were a few curious glances and whispers, and Steve looked down at his clasped hands.

When Steve’s watch read one minute past seven, Sam called out to the crowd. “Get your coffee, if you’re getting it. It’s past time to start.”

There was a rustle of activity as people found seats, but then the room went quiet.

“I know a lot of you have already noticed my buddy Steve back there. We’re gonna give him the same treatment we give everybody else. The same kindness, the same patience.” Sam grinned. “The same kick in the ass when he needs it.”

Heads turned, but the faces were smiling—politely interested rather than intrusive. Still, Steve felt so uncomfortable that he missed everything that was said throughout at least the first half of the meeting. By the time he was able to tune in, a guy with a neatly trimmed rusty-red beard was talking about applying for a job.

“Congratulations, man, that’s a big step,” Sam said.

“Thanks. Yeah, I know it’s good. It’s a good thing. And I know I’m qualified. Maybe overqualified in terms of training, but still . . .”

After he trailed off, no one spoke, and Steve was impressed with their patience.

Finally the bearded guy said, “I’m just not sure about it.”

Someone on the other side of the room spoke up: “ You’re not sure about the job?”

“Yeah. I felt kind of uncomfortable being there.”

“You worried it’ll trigger something?”

“No, nothing like that.” The man with the beard shifted in his chair before he continued. “It’s was just kind of surreal. I mean, I know it’s a hospital. They deal with life and death all the time. I know that. And I don’t mean to minimize what those people are going through. I know they’re really sick, seriously injured. Otherwise they wouldn’t be there. But it still seemed so easy to me. So clean. And the medics—they’re dealing with strangers. It’s just not the same. Three days before I came home, I sat next to a guy at breakfast and he told me about his kid’s baseball game. By the middle of the afternoon, I was working on him. Trying to keep him from bleeding to death after half his leg got blown off by an IED.”

There were murmurs and nods of acknowledgment and sympathy.

“I know what you mean,” a man’s voice said. Steve couldn’t see the speaker through the crowd. “Regular life doesn’t seem quite real.”

“Exactly,” said the bearded guy. “And I don’t want to start resenting everyone, feeling angry because they can just carry on like everything is normal.”

Steve knew the feeling too. He’d always thought that he felt out of place because the huge gap in his timeline, but maybe that wasn’t the only reason.

Several other people shared times when they’d felt a similar disconnect upon coming home: a friend complaining about a restaurant meal that was worlds better than rations or a co-worker complaining about having to get up early for the morning commute.

“About that hospital job?” another man’s voice said. “It sounds a little strange—I mean, to say it would be easier to work somewhere where there’s _more_ trauma, you know? But maybe you could work in the emergency room. My aunt is an ER nurse, and the way she talks about it, it sure as hell is real.”

“And you’re used to that,” someone else offered. “You would be good at it.”

The bearded guy looked thoughtful. “That’s not a bad idea.”

As people were standing up and getting ready to leave, Sam said, in front of everyone: “Hey, Steve, remember: the first meeting is a free ride. After that, you gotta speak up at least once.”

It felt like every eye in the room turned to look at Steve. He knew that probably wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop his face from turning pink. He nodded at Sam, hoping that would be enough of an answer. It must have been, because Sam nodded back, and everyone started putting on their coats.

*****

__  
**London, November 1943**  


_They leave the bar all at once without even discussing it. Steve likes that—it makes it seems like they’re already a team. He feels pretty good about almost everything, really. It’s hard for him to believe that he’s finally getting a chance to be truly useful, but it’s happening, and all the guys agreed to work with him, without hesitation._

_As they walk back to the barracks through the darkened streets, Morita slows down to match Steve’s pace and nudges him with an elbow. “So Agent Carter. . . .”_

_Steve’s eyes go immediately to Bucky, who’s walking ahead of the others, which means Steve can’t see his face._

_“She’s gorgeous in a uniform,” Morita continues. “But in that red dress. . . .”_

_Dugan laughs. “Sure makes me stand at attention.”_

_“Watch it,” Steve says, making the warning clear in his tone._

_Dugan gives Steve a grin and holds up a casual hand in apology, and Steve can’t take offense when he clearly means none._

_Steve looks at Bucky again. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his head is bowed. Steve wants to catch up and throw his arm around Bucky, but since Steve pulled him off Zola’s table he’s been distant—it’s the one thing Steve isn’t happy about._

_Steve longed to put his arms around Bucky the entire trek back to camp, but when they bunked down for the night on the cold ground, they were surrounded by the other men, and Steve felt far too aware of the tights under his fatigues to do anything that might be looked at askance. So once the watch was established, Steve settled down as close to Bucky as he dared. During the chilly night, Bucky pressed up close, but when Steve turned toward him, hoping for a few whispered, private words, he jumped up and slipped into the crowd._

_Earlier that night as they talked, Bucky seemed more at ease, and Steve hoped the ice might begin to thaw. But then Peggy walked in, and Steve got a glimpse of Bucky’s face. Steve wants to tell him how crazy it is, as if Steve would ever go for anyone else as long as Bucky would have him._

_Morita pauses as the group passes the door to Steve’s room and says, “Will we all get private quarters now that we agreed to this suicidal plan?”_

_Dernier says something too quick for Steve to catch, and Jones chuckles before he translates: “You should have private quarters so we all don’t have to listen to you snore.”_

_Bucky lingers by Steve’s door after the rest of the guys disappear around the corner, headed for their beds. Steve hopes he’ll come in for a while, but when he smiles it’s obviously strained._

_“This is so strange,” he says. “It’s you—I know it’s you, but I’m looking up at you. It’s—” He shakes his head, and Steve is tempted to just grab him and manhandle him inside. He has no idea what on earth he’d say, but in the tiny room with the lights off, he wouldn’t have to do anything other than kiss him._

_“I mean, you’re huge, Steve.” Bucky grimaces. “I can’t—”_

_While on tour, Steve got used to attention from the girls in the chorus and in the audience of every city they visited, but there’s none of that admiration in Bucky’s gaze right now. He’s clearly put off. It makes Steve feel like a freak. Frankenstein’s monster in red, white, and blue._

_“Bucky—”_

_“Anyway, it’s late,” Bucky says with forced cheerfulness. “We’d better hit the hay. You’ve got that early meeting.”_

_“What? Oh, right, with Stark.”_

_“And Carter.” Bucky lets the words hang there for a moment, just staring at Steve._

_Then Morita sticks his head back around the corner. “Hey, Barnes, you coming or what?”_

_“Yeah, I’m coming.” Bucky turns away. “Night, Steve.”_

*****

Steve dressed carefully for midnight mass. Once he had his tie tied just right, he stared into the mirror at his reflection. He felt every minute of his ninety-six years, but he looked perfectly fine. Part of him wanted his sleeplessness and worry to show. If he had dark circles under his eyes and looked drawn and pale, maybe everyone wouldn’t always just assume that he was fine, that he could handle everything thrown at him. But Sam had said he was good at hiding it. Maybe he was.

He felt a little hypocritical going to church. He wasn’t even sure he believed anymore. Sometimes he thought of being under the ice for so long and wondered if some guiding force had protected him all that time and brought him back. Then he thought of everything that had happened to Bucky and didn’t want to believe in a god who would allow it. But he wanted to go to mass tonight. It reminded him of going to church as a kid with his mother, and with Bucky.

Everyone in the church was happy: friends calling out greetings and little kids bouncing with excitement. Steve sat in the very back row and watched them. He tried to stop worrying about whether or not he still believed and enjoy the singing and appreciate the holiday cheer of the people around him, but instead it just made him feel more lonely. The service still felt familiar, though it wasn’t the comfort Steve had hoped for.

He was thinking about slipping out when Bucky slid into the pew next to him.

Steve turned and stared. He couldn’t help it. Bucky was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. His hair had gotten shaggy again, but it was brushed neatly away from his face. He’d shaved carefully—he looked so damn young—and was wearing a white button-down shirt and tie with his ragged jeans and beat-up leather jacket. It was all Steve could do not to wrap his arms around him and hold on for dear life. But he just sat there, ready to burst with happiness. Bucky sat still too, watching the service intently, but he was close enough that his thigh pressed against Steve’s.

When the service was over, neither of them moved. It took a while for the crowd to disperse. Everyone was wishing one another Merry Christmas, and parents had to put tired little kids into coats and gather up overexcited older children.

As the last of the families were filing out past them, Bucky leaned over and said quietly, “You don’t go to church anymore.”

He didn’t sound like an emotionless robot. He sounded like himself. Steve couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head.

Bucky gave him a look, so much like the teasing looks he used to give Steve when they were kids. “Me neither.”

Steve still couldn’t answer. Was Bucky _joking_ with him?

“Forgive me, father,” Bucky whispered. “It’s been seventy years since my last confession.”

Steve laughed, though it was awful to think about the things Bucky would confess. But no, he shouldn’t do penance for sins that weren’t his.

As if Bucky could read Steve’s mind, his small smile twisted into something sour, and he looked down at his lap.

Steve finally found his voice. “Bucky—” He cut himself off when Bucky suddenly stood up.

“I gotta get outta here,” he said, sounding a little panicked.

“Okay.” Steve stood up too but was careful not to get too close. “Okay, let’s go.”

Once they were outside, Bucky hesitated. Steve waited, not letting himself say _Where were you?_ and _Please don’t go_.

“Where’s your bike?” Bucky said.

Surprised, Steve gestured toward the corner where his motorcycle was parked. Was Bucky really going to come home with him? He followed Steve closely and climbed right on the back of the bike. Steve wished he could just drive forever with Bucky close behind him, his arms tight around Steve’s waist. It felt like no one could touch them. But all too soon they arrived at Steve’s building.

As Steve unlocked the door, he turned to look at Bucky, still not quite able to believe that he was here. They were very close: face to face. Steve couldn’t breathe. He wanted to kiss Bucky so badly, but he couldn’t when he was still shouldering the guilt about letting things move so fast at the beach house.

Bucky stared back at him, then turned away, pushing the door open. He took a few steps into the living room and looked around.

“So this is the new place,” Steve said. “I fixed up a room for you.”

Bucky frowned.

“I mean, you can bunk with me, of course. If you want to. I want you to, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

As Steve was rambling, Bucky walked into the second bedroom and snapped on the light. Steve followed.

“I mean, you can sleep in here or sleep with me. Tonight or any night. If you’re staying. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to stay. Though I want you to—I hope you know that.” Steve wished he could shut up.

Bucky slapped at the light switch to turn it off, stomped back out to the living room with his head bowed, and threw himself onto the couch.

Steve knew he shouldn’t push, but he had to ask. “Hey, Buck?”

Buck at least lifted his head and looked at Steve, even if he didn’t answer.

“I don’t really know how this works, but . . . your memory? Do you have your memory back now? Or is it—?” Steve broke off when Bucky stood up suddenly. But Steve couldn’t let it go. He needed to know what Bucky remembered. Especially about what happened in Massachusetts. “I mean, do you remember everything that’s happened recently?”

Bucky went to stand by the window. “I remember what I did. That I shot you. I remember—”

“No, Buck, that’s not what I—” Steve took a step forward, wanting to give comfort, but Bucky’s head snapped up. He looked at Steve warily, so Steve stopped midstride and tried to explain. “I meant when we were at the beach house. I just wanted to make it clear. I don’t want to—”

Steve had been about to say that he didn’t want to assume they’d sleep together again or to assume that Bucky would remember. And he wanted to apologize for whatever had chased him away for so long.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to.” Bucky’s tone was curt. “After everything I did—”

“That’s not what I meant.” Steve couldn’t stay away now. He came close and put his hand on Bucky’s arm. Bucky finally looked straight at him.

“You didn’t kiss me,” Bucky said. “Before, at the door.”

“That was—” It was too hard to explain. “I wanted to. I just—I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“There’d be advantages for me too,” Bucky said, very quietly. “I remember enough to know that.”

Steve gaped at Bucky—he really was joking around.

Bucky’s expression broke into an actual grin. “You still can’t talk about sex.”

Steve could feel his face get hot. He tried to find something to say but could only stammer.

Bucky pressed close and whispered in Steve’s ear. “I love it when you’re like this.” He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and rested his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky was so like himself—the teasing, the affection in his voice. Steve was afraid to trust it. He dared to put his arms around Bucky too.

“I remember everything,” Bucky said. “Everything since I woke up.” His breath ghosted over Steve’s neck, making him shiver. “I don’t remember everything from before. Not everything. But a lot. From before the war, I mean. When we were kids. But the rest . . .” Bucky’s hands fisted in Steve’s shirt. “Everything I remember—even the war—it seems like I’ve always got a gun in my hands, and it all runs together.”

Steve squeezed his arms around Bucky more tightly, then pulled away and grabbed his hand. As he led Bucky to the couch, he flipped the switch to turn on the Christmas tree lights. Bucky sat down, but he didn’t settle, instead perching on the edge of the cushion and staring at Steve as if waiting for orders.

“You hungry?”

Bucky shook his head.

“Maybe that’s a good thing, because I don’t have much in the fridge. I’m supposed to have Christmas dinner with Sam and his folks.”

Bucky didn’t exactly frown, but the skin around his eyes tightened.

Steve rushed to explain. “I won’t go though, not if you’re staying. Because of course I want you to stay, and I didn’t think you’d want to go. But if you want to I can call Sam and—”

“Steve.”

“Okay, no, I guess you wouldn’t want to—”

“Steve, will you shut up?”

Maybe Bucky’s words should have stung, but it was a relief to have a reason to stop blathering on.

Bucky wrapped his right hand around Steve’s wrist. “Just sit with me. Okay?”

Steve nodded.

After a few minutes, Bucky slouched back against the cushions. He pulled Steve back with him, shifting their grip and weaving their fingers together.

“I remember Christmases,” Bucky said. “Especially the year you were in the hospital.”

They’d been teenagers. Steve’s mother had spent as much time at the hospital as visiting hours would allow, and then Bucky had snuck past the nurses late in the evening with a sandwich made from his mother’s Christmas ham. Steve hadn’t had much of an appetite, but he nibbled on the sugar cookies Bucky’d brought while Bucky ate the sandwich.

“How about when Dum Dum found those sausages?” Steve said.

Bucky gave him a tiny grin. “What the hell was wrong with them?”

Steve laughed. “We ate them Christmas eve and were sick as dogs all Christmas day.”

Bucky’s smile grew. “Even you.”

“Oh, _that_ makes you smile? Me, miserable on Christmas?”

“Nice to see you were still human.” Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand.

Steve let his shoulder lean into Bucky’s.

Bucky nudged him and said, “You should go to bed.”

“I’m okay.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot,” Steve said, elbowing Bucky in the ribs.

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky was so relaxed, so much himself, that Steve felt he could chance a little more pushing. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

Bucky looked at him. Steve couldn’t read his expression, but he waited, watching, until Bucky leaned over and kissed him. It was sweetly tentative, and Steve felt his eyes prickle. When Bucky pulled away, he noticed the grateful tears in Steve’s eyes and turned away.

“Don’t get sappy on me, Rogers, or I swear—”

“I’m not,” Steve lied. “I’m not. I’m just—” He grabbed Bucky, pushed him deep into the couch cushions, and kissed him. Bucky welcomed it, one hand twining in Steve’s hair and the other pulling at his tie and shoving the coat off his shoulders.

His hands roamed everywhere as he pulled off Steve’s clothes. It was strange how Bucky’s touch felt both familiar and alien at the same time. And it wasn’t just the prosthetic. If anything, it was because he was so gentle. They’d always been a little selfish during sex, pushing and pulling to get what they wanted. It had worked because they both did it, but now Bucky was careful and slow in his movements. Steve didn’t mind. He was in no rush, and he was thankful—more than thankful. If this was how it was going to be from now on, he’d consider himself damn lucky. It was more than he’d ever dreamed he’d get.

Back at the beach house, they hadn’t kissed even once, but now it was like Bucky needed his mouth on Steve’s to breathe. He only allowed their lips to part for brief moments here and there—as he yanked off Steve’s undershirt or wriggled out from under him so he could climb on top and straddle Steve’s lap—before diving back in for another lingering kiss.

Only when Steve reached for Bucky’s belt buckle did Bucky pull away for longer than a second. His metal hand closed over Steve’s.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I think it makes it harder for you.”

“No.” Steve leaned in for another soft kiss. “No, I need this.” Bucky gave him a doubtful look, so Steve kissed him again. “Please, Buck.”

Bucky reached for Steve’s fly, getting his hand inside just as Steve remembered he’d been about to do the same thing to Bucky. Then Bucky’s strong fingers were around his cock, and Steve couldn’t do anything but let his head fall back and keep breathing. It only took a few moments for Bucky to bring Steve right to the edge—he still knew exactly how Steve liked to be touched. But just as Steve got really close, his cock leaking and his balls tightening—God he’d missed this—Bucky let go of him.

Steve bit down on a complaint and lifted his head to see what was wrong. Bucky was struggling with his own zipper. Steve reached out to help, but Bucky made a frustrated noise. As he shoved Steve’s hands away, his metal hand bumped Steve’s cock, making him wince.

Bucky froze and looked at Steve with wide eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, God, I’m sorry.”

He started to pull away, but Steve grabbed him by the hips to keep him close.

“Come on, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s every muscle was tensed, ready to flee.

“Bucky, please.” Steve strained his head up to press a kiss to Bucky’s lips. He didn’t respond, so Steve pulled gently at Bucky’s hips, making him settle onto his lap again. He kissed Bucky’s neck. “Come on, forget about it.”

Bucky’s body was slowly relaxing, but he still wasn’t moving. Steve slowly reached for the button on his jeans. When he didn’t object, Steve lowered the zipper and pulled out his cock. He gave it a few slow strokes. “Come on, Buck, please.”

Bucky rested his forehead on Steve’s, then let Steve take his left hand and wrap it around both of their dicks, holding it there.

“Steve, stop.”

“No,” Steve gasped out. He tightened his hand, closing Bucky’s metal fingers around them and thrusting up into the grip.

Bucky groaned and pushed too. His hips moved only half a dozen times before he came with another moan, coating their fingers. Pushing into Bucky’s slickness was excruciatingly good, and Steve came hard, clenching his eyes shut. Bucky slumped brokenly onto Steve’s shoulder, and Steve wrapped both arms around him. He liked the feeling of Bucky on top of him like this, heavy and sleepy. After a few minutes, Steve realized that Bucky wasn’t just sleepy, he was sleeping. He was so exhausted he’d dropped off still perched on Steve’s thighs.

“Bucky.” Steve rubbed his back. “Come on, Buck, let’s go to bed.”

Bucky answered with a grumpy noise that made Steve smile.

“Come on, pal.”

Bucky slowly pulled himself upright. Steve noticed his undershirt hanging off the arm of the couch, so he grabbed it and used it to wipe up the mess on their bellies. Then he nudged at Bucky until he stood up. He followed Steve into the bedroom, let his jeans fall to the floor, and got into bed wearing only his boxers. After pulling off his own clothes, Steve tucked up behind Bucky and pulled the blankets up around their ears. He was asleep in seconds.

*****

Steve woke up sweaty, wrapped in a pile of blankets and a half-naked Bucky. It was probably the best Christmas morning ever.

He had to pee, but he wouldn’t move for the world. He was afraid when Bucky woke up he’d be up and out pretty quickly. But when he couldn’t wait anymore and tried to disentangle their limbs, he found that Bucky was already awake. Or at least partially. He mumbled something unintelligible, nuzzled at the side of Steve’s head, rolled over, and fell back into a light doze.

When Steve got back from the bathroom, Bucky was still there, so he slid back under the covers and wrapped his arm around Bucky’s waist.

“Morning,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “You can sleep late, you know.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just snuggled back a little closer, which pressed Steve’s quickly hardening dick against his ass.

“You think I’ll be able to sleep when you’re poking me with that thing?”

Steve’s laugh came out as a snort, and Bucky laughed too. It was the first time Steve had heard him laugh—really laugh—and he pushed his face against Bucky’s neck again to keep his reaction from ruining Bucky’s mood. Bucky moved back, purposefully shifting his hips to rub against Steve’s dick.

It was a pretty obvious invitation, but still, Steve moved cautiously, hooking his thumb into the waistband of Bucky’s boxers and sliding them down over his hip. Bucky shoved them down lower and kicked them off, then pressed close again, positioning himself so that Steve’s cock lay right along the cleft of his ass.

“God, Buck, you feel good.”

Steve slung his arm around Bucky’s waist, reaching for his dick, and Bucky sighed happily when Steve got his hand around it. Bucky stayed still, letting Steve set the pace. It probably would be wise to keep things slow—Bucky had been a little skittish the night before. But having Bucky in his arms, sleepy and relaxed and moaning, made Steve feel a little desperate. He wriggled lower in the bed so that he could thrust his dick up between Bucky’s legs, keeping his hand wrapped around Bucky’s cock, stroking him a little faster now.

Bucky reached back and grabbed Steve’s hip. “Do you want to fuck me?”

It wasn’t the first time Bucky’d offered, and they’d tried that a few times. But they both liked it better the other way around, so Steve was a little surprised by the question.

“No, I want you to do me.”

Bucky pulled away carefully, rolled over so they were face to face, and gave Steve a messy kiss with a lot of tongue. “You got something we can use?”

Steve thought of the bottle he’d guiltily purchased during his massive shopping trip. “Yeah, in the drawer.” Steve gestured to the far side of the bed. “In the nightstand.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave Steve a crooked grin. After he retrieved the bottle, he knelt on the bed beside Steve, popped open the lid, and squirted a little bit out on his fingers. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“I guess I finally found something I like better about the twenty-first century,” Bucky said dryly.

“What’s that?”

Bucky held up his hands, rubbing his fingers together, shiny with lubricant. Just the sight of it made Steve’s cock twitch. He knew what Bucky could do with those fingers.

“This is much better than the stuff we used to make do with.”

Steve stretched out one leg and hooked his foot around Bucky, trying to pull him close. “Well, I bought a nice big bottle of it, so Merry Christmas.”

Bucky let Steve pull him over till he was hanging over him, looking down. He was wearing a perfect, teasing grin. After a lingering kiss, he said, “But I didn’t get you anything.”

“You being here is present enough.”

Bucky snorted. “You always were a sap.”

“Okay, I’ve got another idea of something you can give me then.”

Bucky closed his eyes and laughed—that really was Steve’s present—then said, “Don’t do that. You know you can’t do innuendo.”

*****

Sam answered the phone after only one ring. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

His tone made Steve pause. It wasn’t a very cheery greeting.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t be calling me when I’m supposed to see you in a couple of hours unless—He’s there, isn’t he?”

Steve was too happy to even try to hide it. Not that Sam would want him to. “Yeah. Caught up with me at church last night.”

“Church?” Sam laughed a little. “How does he seem?”

“Great, Sam. He’s great.”

Sam paused for a moment, and Steve had a feeling he was holding back discouraging words. 

“He talking at all?”

“Yes. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sam sighed. “If it was just me, or even my folks, I’d say bring him along. But with the kids. . . .”

“No, of course. We’ll be fine. Tell Naomi I’m sorry.”

“Just take care of yourself.” Sam said. “Call me if you need anything.”

It was past noon already, but Steve decided to keep Bucky in bed by bringing him breakfast. They’d both fallen back to sleep, and when Steve woke up, he had slipped out to call Sam, careful not to wake Bucky.

Steve threw together a quick meal—just toast and scrambled eggs—and carried everything into the bedroom on a tray. Bucky was still sound asleep. Steve was thrilled that he felt safe enough to really conk out like that. Maybe it would be better to let him rest. But as Steve was considering what to do, Bucky woke up and smiled at him. He was still half asleep, so it was a lazy smile but also full of promise, and Steve’s dick stirred a little in his sweats.

“Breakfast first,” he ordered, but he couldn’t help but smile back.

Bucky shoved all the pillows up by the headboard and lifted the covers so that Steve could get back underneath while holding the tray. Bucky ate quickly, not talking at all, but when he was done he let out a contented sigh, set his plate on the nightstand, and curled up on his side, teasing Steve with sneaky caresses while he tried to finish his breakfast.

The moment Steve set the tray aside, Bucky was on him, licking and sucking his dick in a leisurely sort of way, then fucking him again—almost torturously slow. He reduced Steve to a gasping puddle, then collapsed on the bed and fell soundly asleep, though Steve stayed awake this time. He just lay still, savoring the weight of Bucky’s head on his shoulder, his slow steady breathing.

When Bucky woke again in the middle of the afternoon, Steve dragged him into the shower. He wouldn’t let Bucky lift a finger. Instead, Steve did everything, soaping him up and even washing his hair. Running the washcloth over Bucky’s body, Steve wanted to arouse him, of course, but it was also a subtle way to reassure himself that Bucky was okay. He was thinner than he’d been back in November, but not alarmingly so, and his skin was smooth and injury-free, other than the scarring at his left shoulder, which Steve washed as matter-of-factly as he could. Bucky looked almost amused at Steve’s tenderness, but he let him do whatever he wanted, including falling to his knees and sucking Bucky until he came with a loud groan.

Steve wrapped Bucky up in a towel and sent him to the other bedroom. “There are clothes in the dresser for you.”

Still wearing a sleepy, sated smile from the interlude in the shower, Bucky went out the bedroom door. Steve pulled on some clean pajama pants and carried the breakfast tray to the kitchen. He returned to the bedroom and tugged the damp, rumpled sheets off the bed, replacing them with a fresh set, but Bucky still hadn’t come back.

Steve found him in the other bedroom. He was still bare-chested, the towel hanging from his waist. His wet hair was dripping on his shoulders, down over his shoulder blades. Steve’s first thought was to yank the towel away and push Bucky down on the bed. Then Steve realized that Bucky was standing in front of the dresser with most of the drawers hanging open.

“Bucky?”

He turned to look at Steve. His face was pale, and his expression was strained.

“You okay, Buck?”

Steve took a few steps into the room and was appalled when Bucky backed away from him almost fearfully. He looked at the open dresser drawers, and Steve suddenly remembered the toothbrush incident in the little beach-town market. Clearly Bucky still needed guidance making even basic decisions.

“Here,” Steve said, careful to keep his voice quiet. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt and set them on the bed. “Put these on. Okay?”

Steve lifted his head, but Bucky turned away rather than meet his gaze. Steve recognized the tight expression on his face: Bucky felt humiliated.

“It’s okay, Buck. It doesn’t matter. Just get dressed, and we’ll have some lunch, okay?”

After a brief hesitation, Bucky nodded, but he was clearly still unhappy. 

Steve opened a can of soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches. It was the kind of thing his mother used to make him when he was sick. He didn’t mean to make it seem like Bucky was some kind of invalid, but there wasn’t much in the fridge, and this seemed like it would be comforting.

Bucky found Steve in the kitchen but stood warily in the door rather than joining him by the stove. Once lunch was ready, Steve led Bucky back to bed. He started a movie—they both needed a distraction—and they ate their lunch while watching _White Christmas_.

Bucky rolled his eyes over the corny songs, but Steve could tell that he liked it even so. He gradually relaxed, snuggling up close to Steve after they ate. Then Steve picked _The Quiet Man_ because Bruce had recommended it. Once he realized what it was about he regretted it—a redemption story seemed like it would hit too close to home—but Bucky was riveted.

When it was over, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He was very still, curled up on his side, his head resting on Steve’s belly.

Steve wondered what was going through his mind, but when he finally spoke he said, “Let’s go to Ireland someday.”

Steve laughed. “That’s what you were thinking about?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I was worried the movie bothered you.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, so he killed a guy. One guy, by accident. It’s hardly the same thing.”

“I know, but—”

Bucky let out a frustrated huff. “Do you want go to Ireland or don’t you?”

Steve slid down on the bed until his face was level with Bucky’s. “Sure I do.”

Bucky smiled and kissed him.

There was another dicey moment when Steve suggested ordering Chinese delivery for dinner. He handed Bucky the menu but quickly realized his mistake when Bucky went still and frowned at the paper in his hands like it might bite him.

“Never mind,” Steve said, taking the menu back from Bucky. “I know what’s good there. I’ll get a bunch of stuff and you can try everything to see what you like.”

Bucky seemed to bounce right back. He was game to try anything at dinner, and at bedtime he brushed his teeth with his new toothbrush and got into bed with Steve like it was normal. He curled up next to Steve, his hard dick nudging at Steve’s thigh, and kissed him sweetly as he settled between Steve’s legs and pushed inside him.

But Steve still woke up alone the following morning.

*****

Over a week later, Steve was still waking up every morning in his empty bed feeling unsettled. It was so easy to get used to Bucky’s warm body next to him. He’d been pushing himself through his daily routine, trying not to hope that every crack of the floorboards in the hall outside was Bucky coming back.

The idea of staying in bed was surprisingly tempting. Steve knew he wouldn’t sleep, but there was something perversely appealing about just wallowing in his loneliness. He had nothing to do today anyway. He’d barely left the house in days because he was afraid of what would happen if Bucky showed up when he wasn’t home. He knew it was stupid—Bucky could certainly get in anytime he wanted—but there was nothing else he could do.

He thought about going for a run, but it was cold and rainy. Running around in weather like that seemed even more pathetic than sulking in bed. A trip to the grocery store wouldn’t be a bad idea. He’d felt bad that he hadn’t had much in the fridge to offer Bucky when he’d last been there, and since then he’d only made dashing trips to the ridiculously priced all-hours market on the corner. The big grocery store where Steve usually shopped wasn’t far from Peggy’s nursing home. He used to stop on the way home after visiting her.

Steve had been neglecting Peggy ever since Bucky came back. He freely admitted that to himself. He’d stopped in for a quick visit before heading out with Sam in the initial months-long search—though he hadn’t told her where he was going—and since coming back to DC, he’d only been a couple of times and stayed for a very short while. It was too hard to make conversation when there was so much he felt he couldn’t tell her. But Steve dragged himself out of bed, took a long hot shower, and drove out to the nursing home.

When he walked in the door, Peggy greeted him with an outstretched hand. Steve could tell right away it was one of her good days: her eyes were sharp and her grip was strong. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, then pulled his hand out of hers so that he could bring a chair over next to the bed.

As he sat down, he noticed a cheerful bouquet of yellow flowers on the nightstand.

“Did Sharon bring the flowers?”

Peggy glanced over at the vase. “Aren’t they lovely? No, your friend brought them. He came to see me.”

Steve froze, unable to imagine Bucky in that quiet room with Peggy.

Peggy realized the problem right away and grabbed his hand. “Oh, no. Darling, I’m sorry. I meant Sam. Your friend Sam, but he explained about Barnes, and I’m more sorry than I can say.”

Unable to speak, Steve simply gave her hand a gentle squeeze in response.

“Has he come back?”

Steve shook his head. He didn’t want to answer questions, and as if she could read his mind, Peggy didn’t ask any more, but she was watching him like a hawk.

“Sam was lovely,” she said. “He brought the flowers and sat with me while I ate my lunch.”

“When was this?”

“A few days ago.” Peggy paused for a moment, thinking. “Two days ago. Yes, it was Sunday. He told me he drove his grandmother to church that morning.” Her hand tightened around his. “I think he’s concerned about you. He mentioned his meetings?”

Steve sighed. It had been three weeks since Steve’s first and only meeting. Sam hadn’t said a word to him about it, but somehow that was worse than nagging. Of course, now he’d gone over Steve’s head and talked to Peggy, so maybe Steve was justified in feeling annoyed.

“Come now,” Peggy said. “What could it hurt to at least try?”

“I did try.”

“Oh? How many meetings have you attended?”

“Peggy—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Was it one meeting? Just the one? Too busy brooding at home to spare an hour?”

In spite of himself, Steve huffed out a laugh. “Okay. You’re right.”

Peggy gave him a cheeky smile. “I usually am.”

“I’ll go to the next meeting. It’s tomorrow. And if the meeting doesn’t help, maybe Sam and I can get a drink afterward.”

Peggy frowned. “Who is Sam?”

“Sam Wilson.” A knot formed in Steve’s gut as her razor-sharp mind grew fuzzy—he could see it on her face that she was starting to drift. But he tried one more time. “My friend Sam who came to see you.”

Peggy shook her head and smiled. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

*****

Precisely at seven on Wednesday evening, Steve walked into the meeting room at the VA. He’d timed it perfectly: Sam was already at the podium up front, and all eyes were on him, so no one even noticed Steve slinking in at the last second. It wasn’t until he was claiming a seat in the back row that he remembered what Sam had said last time: he’d have to say something tonight. He couldn’t just sit there, silent.

What on earth would he say? He couldn’t talk about Bucky. He didn’t want to, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure what he could say without getting himself in trouble or putting Bucky in danger. He knew that what was discussed in meetings was supposed to be secret—like confession, but everyone must have seen footage on the news about the Winter Soldier. They might feel it was their duty to tell the authorities.

Steve’s attention was consumed by his thoughts, so he didn’t hear anything of the discussion until Sam said his name: “So, Steve, you finally made it back.”

A few people turned their heads to glance back at him, but to give them credit, they didn’t stare. One woman’s gaze stayed fixed on him for longer than the others, but she offered an encouraging smile. Steve returned it, feeling awkward.

“You all remember my friend Steve, I’m sure,” Sam said. “He was here a few weeks ago, but you must have scared him off. This is the first time he’s been back, so we’re going to take it easy on him. But I told you the rules, buddy: no free pass on the second meeting. You gotta share something.” When Steve still didn’t speak, Sam gave him an encouraging nod.

Steve wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said. “Just tell us a little about how things are going.”

“Not bad,” Steve said. “I’m keeping busy.”

Sam laughed. “I know I said we’d take it easy on you, but you gotta do better than that.”

A couple of other people laughed too, not unkindly, and it broke the tension in the room a bit.

Steve forced a smile. “I know I’m bad at this. They had me try therapy before.” Steve pressed his hands against his thighs so that he wouldn’t fidget. “I wasn’t very good at it.”

There was more soft laughter, and it made Steve brave enough to look at someone other than Sam. A few people had turned in their chairs, including the woman who’d smiled at him earlier. She looked kind. She was about fifty, with dark brown hair pulled back in a thick braid and big chunky earrings. She didn’t look like the typical ex soldier, but Steve knew he shouldn’t assume anything.

She nodded at Steve, and it was stupidly encouraging. He found it was easier to continue with her patient gaze on him. “I guess I didn’t really see the point. I mean, just about everyone I knew was dead. There wasn’t anything they could do about that.”

The woman gave him a wry smile, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see others nodding.

“I know it’s been a while. I should be used to it by now, I guess. I mean—”

The woman frowned, and it made Steve stop talking. Sam noticed it too, and he said, “What is it, Judith?”

“I’m just not sure that’s something you can get used to,” Judith said. Her voice was low and gravely.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said. “I’m not explaining it well.”

“No, you’re doing fine,” said a tall, skinny kid in the front row. He had a crew cut, and Steve wondered if he’d just come back from deployment.

“I think I’ve just felt . . . set apart. Out of place. And I thought it was just the time thing.” Steve felt embarrassed for mentioning that—he didn’t like reminding everyone about his extraordinary story and his manufactured body, but he wasn’t bragging. “But when I was here last time, I heard someone talking about feeling like nothing they’re doing here is important. Not compared to the things you do at the front.”

Steve searched the room until he found the red-bearded man who talked about applying for a job in a hospital. “Just like you were saying,” Steve said with a nod. “By the way, how did it go with the job?”

The guy seemed pleased that Steve remembered. “I got it. I started last week.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“If you’d come last week,” Sam said pointedly, “you’d have heard all about it.”

Steve gave him a guilty smile. “Sorry.”

Sam just shook his head. “All right, don’t get off track. You were saying something important.”

“Right,” Steve said. He gestured at the guy with the beard. “It was like he was saying: it all seems a little inconsequential. I mean, waking up and being told that the war was over. I felt like there was nothing for me to _do_.”

All around, folks were nodding their agreement. The skinny kid spoke up again. “That was a heck of a fight in New York a few years ago. And last spring here in DC.”

The comment provoked a smattering of laughter, and Steve forced himself to smile. “Okay, yeah. But even that wasn’t the same. It was a few days—a few hours altogether. Then it was over. It wasn’t the constant grind of it. Every day, every mission. That was my routine for so long that I feel like I don’t know how to have a normal life anymore. I see people driving to work or going to the grocery store or walking their dogs, and I wonder how they can do that every day.”

No one was laughing now. It was clear that they knew was Steve meant. This was so much better than talking to the psychologist. These people understood, even when Steve didn’t explain it well. They knew what it was like to hate the war and the way it wore away at you but miss the way it focused your mind, made you forget everything but what was right in front of you. 

“When I went to therapy before, I tried talking to the guy, but . . . when I grew up, we didn’t spend a lot of time talking about our feelings. I mean, maybe guys talked with their wives about this stuff, but I never had that.”

The skinny kid held up one hand. “You know that’s just an excuse, right?”

“You know we all got fed that crap too,” said another voice from across the room. “Real men don’t cry, and all of that.”

“No, I know. And I don’t mean to imply that it’s easy for all of you to talk about this stuff.” Steve had never been ashamed of having feelings, and he didn’t mean just men: he just wasn’t used to people sharing so much of their private thoughts and feelings, this modern openness. It was almost embarrassing. It seemed rude to burden people with his problems.

“C’mon, man, tell us what you’re thinking,” Sam said.

“Okay, um. . . .” Steve sighed. “I admit I didn’t give therapy a fair shot. So I’m here. But I felt better when I just kept busy, you know? I don’t know how to get past it, so I just don’t think about it. How do you get past it? How do you get to a point where regular life seems normal?”

It was quiet for a long time. Frustrated, Steve looked up at Sam, but he was quiet, watching the group. Steve knew it wasn’t fair to expect them to give him an answer on a silver platter, but no one seemed to want to say anything. Last time, people had asked questions and offered suggestions, but no one was talking now.

Just as the silence became excruciatingly embarrassing, Sam said, “Come on, people, how many chances are you going to get to tell Captain American what to do?”

Everyone laughed, but there was another pause before Judith finally spoke up. 

“I’m not sure you can get past it, really.” She spoke quietly and slowly, but there was nothing tentative about her. “It’s not that simple. For me, once I realized that, once I accepted that I couldn’t just get past it, it was easier to move forward.”

She was looking at Steve, and though he was already starting to like her, the directness of her gaze made him want to hide. He fought the urge to look away and tried to really listen to what she was saying.

“It’s not all just going to go away,” Judith said. “I couldn’t just keep myself busy until it faded, because it wasn’t going to fade. Coming here, to meetings, it’s made me realize that I was keeping it all in. When my husband or my sister would try to get me to talk about it, I’d shut down. I thought I was protecting them. That I was being strong. But they didn’t know what was in my head, and they worried more. Once I started talking—to them and at meetings—everyone felt better. I learned that it’s okay to feel sad, and it’s okay to be angry.

Steve was shocked when he felt his throat tighten up. It was all hitting a little too close to home.

“But keeping it all in isn’t healthy,” Judith continued, “and it isn’t being strong. It’s harder to let it out and deal with it—that’s the really hard thing to do.”

Steve nodded. But he couldn’t hold her gaze any longer. He looked down at his hands, which were clenched on his thighs.

“And I wasn’t giving them enough credit. My family, I mean. They’re strong too, strong enough for me to lean on. And from what I hear, you’ve got some pretty strong friends, Cap.”

Steve heard chuckles from around the room. His throat still felt too tight to talk, but he looked up and forced a small smile in Judith’s direction.

What she’d said made sense. She was right, of course, but who did Steve have to talk to? He couldn’t really talk to Peggy. Not like that. She wasn’t herself anymore. Maybe Natasha, but not over the phone. And when he really thought about talking to her on that level it made him uncomfortable. Steve had always had Bucky. But now he couldn’t saddle Bucky with any of his problems. Not now.

Steve was relieved to notice that Sam had steered attention away from him. The skinny kid in the front—his name was Darren—talked about his physical therapy, and Steve noticed the crutches propped on the chair next to him. A very young woman with strawberry blond hair talked a little about her husband, who was also a soldier and was now in Afghanistan, but she spoke so quietly Steve could only hear about every other word.

When the hour was up, Steve stayed in his seat and watched everyone file out. A few people waited for a private word with Sam, but when they were all gone, he came and sank onto the folding chair next to Steve’s, giving his shoulder a playful punch. “You done good.”

Steve made a face. He didn’t like how proud the praise made him feel, like a kid getting a gold star on his math test. “I feel a little silly. I really let it get to me.”

“That’s what this is for. You think you’re the only one who has trouble talking about it? This is a good group. Smart. I trust them. That’s why I picked this group for you.” Sam studied Steve’s face. “Speaking up the first time’s the hardest. Really. You did it, and you can do it again.”

Steve nodded. “I noticed something though.”

“What’s that?”

“Not everyone speaks up. I thought you said after the first meeting you had to talk.”

“Yeah, that rule is just for you. Otherwise you wouldn’t say anything.” Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder, then his expression turned serious. “How are things going?”

“He left. He stayed overnight, but. . . .”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me? I’ve been giving you space, figuring you needed it to get your head on straight and help him, but what have you been doing for a week?”

Steve shrugged. “Sorry.”

“You know what? Never mind. You’re here. That’s a big step. I shouldn’t be giving you a hard time.” Sam ran a hand over his face. “So how was he?”

“I don’t know.” Steve wasn’t sure how to explain. “He’s good. I mean, he’s himself, if that makes any sense. I can tell he doesn’t trust himself, but I do. He’s so careful. And he seems. . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Fragile?”

“Well, yeah, that makes sense.”

“I guess,” Steve said. “I never know what’s going to hit a nerve.”

“Hit a nerve?” Sam frowned.

The suspicion in his expression—like he was afraid of what Bucky might do—irked Steve until he realized he should probably be a lot more worried about that himself.

“Nothing important,” Steve said. “We watched a movie where a boxer was feeling guilty for accidentally killing someone in the ring.”

“You watched a movie?”

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s just hard to imagine.”

“I told you, he’s much better.” Steve again fought off irritation. He didn’t want Sam thinking that Bucky was still walking around like an automaton, or worse, like some kind of animal. “Anyway, I was afraid it might bother him—the guilt and everything. But he didn’t even think of it. But the simplest things seem to overwhelm him, like ordering Chinese food or picking out what to wear.”

“He hasn’t been allowed to make his own decisions for a long time,” Sam pointed out.

“I know,” Steve said. “That’s exactly why I want to give him a choice whenever I can. But it upsets him, and he tries to hide it, then gets more upset once he realizes he isn’t doing a very good job of hiding it.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, thinking. “How about this. Give him a choice, but make the options clear. And limited. Like instead of ‘What do you want for dinner?’ say ‘Do you want spaghetti or pork chops?’ That way he gets to have a choice, but doesn’t feel overwhelmed.”

“That makes sense,” Steve said. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.”

“Thank my sister. She told me about that. Apparently it works with toddlers. The number of temper tantrums in her house went down to almost zero.”

*****

Bucky didn’t come back for another week. Then late one afternoon Steve came back from a charity luncheon and found Bucky slouched against the wall in the corner of the kitchen. His eyes were sunken and shadowed. He let Steve hug him, but didn’t reciprocate. Steve could feel that Bucky had gotten thinner, even through the thick sweatshirt he was wearing.

A million questions sprang to Steve’s mind. Where on earth did Bucky go when he left? Wasn’t he eating? Steve wondered what Bucky did when he went away. He had imagined Bucky carrying out vengeful missions and hated the thought. Not because he thought it was wrong, but because if that was something Bucky needed to do, Steve wanted to help. But he held his tongue. Bucky wouldn’t answer his questions anyway, and just the asking might be enough to chase him back out the door.

“Come on, Buck, let’s sit somewhere more comfortable.”

But Bucky wouldn’t move. Steve was tempted to just grab him and pull him up but figured it would be better to save that as a last resort, for a real emergency. It bothered Steve to see Bucky sitting there on the cold tile floor, but it didn’t seem to make any difference to Bucky himself.

It took over an hour for Steve to coax Bucky out of the corner and onto the couch where he sat, silent and staring, until Steve reheated some leftover lasagna and pushed the plate into Bucky’s hands. Bucky ate three huge pieces and fell asleep on the couch.

Hours later, Steve woke him up and dragged him to the bedroom. He was still so tired he barely opened his eyes, just fell onto the bed and was back to sleep almost instantly. Then in the middle of the night, Steve was awakened by Bucky talking in his sleep. He didn’t say anything coherent, but he was twitching and cringing, probably reacting to something in his nightmare.

Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and he instantly jolted awake. He sat bolt upright, then froze, going eerily still and quiet. Steve felt a flash of anger—he was sure that Bucky got control of himself so quickly because of his conditioning. He’d probably been punished for allowing his emotions to seep out.

“It’s okay, Bucky, you’re safe.” Steve rested his hand on Bucky’s leg, but he didn’t respond. “Come on. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Bucky let Steve settle him in the bed and didn’t pull away when Steve put his arms around him. But when Steve woke up a few hours later, Bucky was gone. Steve glanced at the clock—it was just after four. Bucky’d barely stayed twelve hours.

Steve knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he grabbed his phone and texted Sam to see if he was planning on going for a run. Sam didn’t answer, but Steve dragged himself out of bed anyway. As he headed for the door, he noticed the door to the other bedroom was closed. He carefully opened it and found Bucky curled up on top of the quilt. Relief flooded into Steve’s chest, but it was tinged with worry. This was exactly what Steve had been hoping for when he set up this room—Bucky could have some space and not have to leave completely. But Steve would rather keep Bucky close.

*****

Steve was eating lunch when Bucky finally emerged from his room. He’d forced himself to go for a run, come home to shower, and kept himself busy all morning, waiting for Bucky to wake up. He tried to gauge Bucky’s frame of mind without making it too obvious. He still looked exhausted, but his eyes had lost that blank look, and he came right over to where Steve was sitting on a stool at the counter and leaned into him. Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky, and he came closer, turning to bury his face in Steve’s neck.

“Hey. I’m glad you stayed,” Steve whispered into Bucky’s hair.

Bucky didn’t answer. Not that Steve expected him too. It was enough that he hadn’t skipped out, and it felt like a bonus that he was actually coming to Steve for comfort.

“You hungry?”

Bucky seemed to have to think about it before he nodded.

“What do you want?”

There was no response, and Steve remembered Sam’s advice about giving limited choices. “There’s eggs and bacon. Or there are still a few pieces of that lasagna if you don’t want breakfast.”

Bucky pulled away and sat on the stool next to Steve’s. “Eggs.”

“Coming right up,” Steve said. He indulged himself, pressing a kiss to the side of Bucky’s head as he headed for the fridge.

While Bucky was eating, Steve’s phone chimed. It was Sam, returning Steve’s text: _Sorry I missed running. Dinner tonight instead?_

“What’s that?” Bucky said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

“It’s Sam.”

Bucky leaned over so he could read the message, then looked up at Steve.

“I’ll put him off,” Steve said. “It’s okay.”

“No, you should go.” His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“I don’t want to leave while you’re here. I assume you’re not up to. . . .”

Steve trailed off when Bucky scowled at him, but it was an exaggerated expression—Steve knew Bucky was joking around, and he couldn’t help but shove up close and hug him. Bucky slipped an arm around Steve’s waist, then tilted his face up for a kiss. Steve expected an affectionate peck, but Bucky pulled his head down and stretched the kiss out, pressing the whole length of his body along Steve’s.

“I thought you were hungry,” Steve said. Though he was already getting hard, and he pushed his hands up under Bucky’s T-shirt to feel his sleep-warm skin. “You only ate half your breakfast.”

“It can wait.” Bucky’s voice came out muffled from where he had his face pressed against Steve’s neck.

“It’ll get cold.”

Bucky pulled Steve by the hand, leading him toward his bedroom. He shoved Steve down onto the bed so hard he bounced. Steve laughed, and Bucky fell to his knees, tugging at the button of Steve’s jeans. Once they were both naked, Bucky sucked Steve’s cock until he was shaking from it, begging Bucky to let him come. Then he pushed between Steve’s legs and fucked him slowly.

While they were still tangled together, catching their breath, Bucky said, “You should go to dinner.” When he’d said that before in the kitchen, he’d sounded miserable, but now he gave Steve’s ribs a playful poke.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want to go out while you’re here. Not if you’re not ready to come too.”

Bucky sighed and started to pull away, so Steve wrapped both arms around Bucky’s waist.

“And I don’t want you to leave either,” Steve said. “How about I ask Sam to come over? We could order in and just eat here.”

It took Bucky a long time to answer. “If you think he’ll want to. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to see me.”

Steve gave Bucky a tight hug. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure. He’s a good guy, Buck, and he knows what you’ve been through.”

Bucky didn’t argue, and Steve figured that was as close to agreement as he was going to get.

*****

Steve greeted Sam at the door. When he stepped inside, he looked around the room warily, but Bucky was out of sight in the kitchen.

“I ordered pizza,” Steve said. “Should be here soon.”

“Great.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Steve offered.

“I’d love a beer.”

“Okay.” Steve turned and saw Bucky in the kitchen door. He’d already decided that pretending they’d never set eyes on each other would be for the best. “Hey, Buck, this is Sam. Sam, this is Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said. But he didn’t try to cross the room and shake Bucky’s hand.

Bucky nodded back, but he didn’t approach Sam either, and his eyes kept darting to Steve for reassurance.

“Buck? You want a beer?”

He nodded. “I’ll get them.” He slipped away without a sound.

Sam watched him go and turned to Steve. “Wow. I gotta hand it to you, man. You’ve worked miracles.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Steve said. “It was all him. But you really think he’s better?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sam said. “I know he’s still a mess, but there’s a person in there now.”

Steve knew that Bucky was better, of course, but it was good to hear it from someone else.

“How’s he doing?”

Sam took a seat in the armchair, leaving the couch for Steve and Bucky.

Steve shrugged. “Better, I think. He sleeps a lot.”

“That sounds about right. He’s been through a lot,” Sam said. “You know, you can’t be everything to him. You can be his friend—his family. But you can’t be his mother. You can’t be his doctor. Maybe it’s time to get him some professional help if he’s—” Sam broke off and his gaze shifted.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen door again, now holding three bottles.

Sam smiled at him. “Yeah, we’re talking about you.”

Bucky’s was face expressionless. After a moment of perfect stillness, he came and sat next to Steve, handing him one of the bottles. He slid another across the table to Sam. His movements were precise, careful, without any of his usual casual grace. Steve was beginning to think this hadn’t been a good idea.

“Thanks for the beer,” Sam said.

Bucky nodded. His eyes stayed fixed on the bottle in his hands.

Sam looked at Steve, who shrugged and shifted his leg slightly so that it touched Bucky’s. Bucky’s knee pressed back.

Sam took a sip of his beer. “I’m really glad to see you here.”

That was enough to make Bucky look up.

“Steve’s been worried about you,” Sam continued. “I wanted to help, but it was pretty clear at first you didn’t want me around.”

Bucky frowned.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I understand that, and I appreciate that you’re okay with me coming tonight.”

Steve wanted to change the subject, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Maybe it would have been worse to ignore the elephant in the room, but it seemed like Sam’s directness was making Bucky uncomfortable. 

There was a knock at the door, and Steve was relieved to escape for a moment to pay the delivery guy. When he returned to the living room, Sam was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. Bucky was slouched down at his end of the couch, looking at his hands clenched in his lap.

Steve felt a flash of anger: was Sam pressuring Bucky to get help the way he’d pressured Steve? He shouldn’t presume—but Steve made himself calm down. Bucky didn’t look all that upset. And Sam was right: Steve couldn’t be everything to Bucky. If Sam was willing and able to help, and if Bucky would accept it, maybe that would be a good idea. The more Steve thought about it, the better he felt. Bucky couldn’t do it on his own, and Sam knew a lot more about this stuff than Steve did.

Sam didn’t stay long, and while they ate, he made small talk with Steve while Bucky sat silent. After Sam left, Bucky was even quieter than usual. Steve wondered if Bucky might sleep in the other bedroom again, but he got into bed next to Steve as if nothing had happened. So Steve fell asleep feeling hopeful. Maybe there’d been a few steps backward, but things were already getting back on track.

When Steve woke up the next morning, however, he was alone in the bed. He checked Bucky’s room, then headed for the kitchen, but Bucky was gone again.

*****

Steve sat in the back row in the meeting room at the VA. He’d come six weeks in a row now, so he thought he was entitled to claim the chair as his usual spot. Darren started off the meeting, jumping right in immediately after Sam got things rolling. Darren walked with crutches because most of his right foot had been blown off while he’d been serving in Afghanistan. He was usually upbeat in spite of several upcoming surgeries looming over his head, but he was unhappy today. His fiancée seemed to be having second thoughts about marrying a man with such a serious injury, one that was going to be a considerable handicap in the future. Darren had worked as a roofer before he shipped out, and he was afraid that even after his surgeries and physical therapy were completed, climbing a ladder and balancing on roofs would be unsafe for him.

“We’ve decided to go to couples counseling. She didn’t want to go at first. She said that most of the problems were because of me, and she’s probably right.” He made a face. “She’s definitely right. And at first I didn’t want to go either. I feel like I spill my guts in here every week. Isn’t that enough? And it’s easier to tell you guys for some reason. Maybe because I don’t have to sit across the dinner table from you later on, wondering if you’re thinking about how messed up I am. I still worry what she’ll do once she realizes my head is more messed up than my foot. But you already know that—we talked about it last week. But I did what you guys suggested and explained that I can’t solve all of my problems on my own. She seemed to get it. She’s willing to give it a try, anyway.”

Judith beamed at him. “That’s wonderful, Darren. I’m so glad you talked to her about it.”

As Darren shot a smile in her direction, Sam spoke up. “So we haven’t talked about relationships in a while. Anybody else have something to talk about?”

Though Steve didn’t look up, he could feel Sam’s eyes on him. Dammit, Sam knew him too well, knew how hard it was for him to back away from a challenge.

A woman with reddish blond hair that Steve recognized from previous meetings raised her hand.

Sam chuckled, though not unkindly. “Maggie, how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t have to raise your hand to talk.”

Maggie smiled and blushed. “Right, sorry. I just—”

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “Tell us what’s going on.”

“Well, things have been better with Matt. We’re talking more. My father-in-law got a new laptop and sent Matt his old one, so we’ve been skyping. It seems to be easier for him than writing letters.”

Steve glanced at Judith, who was listening intently, nodding. She’d become a kind of touchstone for Steve during meetings—she was always patient and kind, and she seemed to pick up on stress within the group that Steve didn’t notice. Like the day that a couple of men had almost came to blows when an argument flared up—Judith had been frowning long before they’d even started to raise their voices. If she was frowning, Steve was especially hesitant to speak up.

“I even had the kids talk to him a little,” continued Maggie. “I think that was really good. The kids were so excited to see him, and he was smiling, really smiling, when we had to log off.”

“Fantastic!” A voice said from the other side of the room. A few other people called out encouragement, and then the conversation fell into a lull. Steve risked a glance at Sam, and just as he suspected, Sam was watching him with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Steve scowled at Sam, but he just grinned back, knowing that Steve wasn’t truly annoyed.

Steve cleared his throat. “I’ve never talked about it, but I’ve been in a relationship for a while. Off and on. Mostly on, I guess. But sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

A few heads nodding in agreement, or understanding. But no one was really looking in Steve’s direction. Sam said maybe they were shy because of Steve’s celebrity, whatever that meant, but Steve liked to think they were just trying to give him as much privacy as they could. 

“We’re both vets,” Steve said

“Man, that’s rough,” Darren said, and when Steve looked at him, he nodded sympathetically.

“Yeah, in some ways. Though I’m not sure we’d be able to understand each other if we hadn’t both been through it. But still, it means. . . .” Steve shrugged.

“A lot of baggage?” Darren offered.

“Yeah, I guess that’s a good way to put it,” Steve said. “And we don’t have the same baggage, so the car gets crowded.”

He knew the joke was lame, but there was a ripple of laughter anyway.

“But that’s better, don’t you think?” Maggie said. She was still shy, but at least now she spoke loudly enough so that most everyone could hear her. “If you had the exact same baggage, you’d both be freaking out about the same things. Maybe it’s better if you can have complementary baggage.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I can see that. But it also means I have no idea what the hell is going on half the time.”

“That’s why you gotta _talk_ to each other, man.” It was Gerald.

Steve was wary of Gerald. He was one of the men who had come close to fighting a few weeks before. He had a hot temper and was blunt to the point of rudeness at times. Steve gave him a quick nod in response to the comment before his eyes skipped over to Judith, as if they had a will of their own.

Judith smiled at him. “You haven’t talked about your relationship before. I think this is good.”

She seemed to be prompting him to go on, but Steve hadn’t had any particular agenda, nothing specific he wanted to bring up. It felt like just admitting he was in a relationship was accomplishment enough.

After an awkward pause, Judith asked, “So right now, are you off or on?”

“On,” Steve said. “I think.”

Her smile this time was wry. “You don’t sound so sure. Is that why you haven’t talked about it?”

“That’s part of it,” Steve admitted. “But we’ve kind of kept it quiet. It’s hard enough without a lot of public scrutiny, you know?”

Steve hated to bring up his alter ego. He liked to be able to tell himself that most of the time the group saw him as plain old Steve Rogers, but it was relevant, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. He fixed his eyes on Judith and pushed himself to keep talking. “We were apart for a while.” Steve knew that he was being vague, and probably no one would guess that by “a while” he meant decades. “But recently we sort of found each other again. And in some ways it’s great. I don’t feel quite right when we’re apart.”

Judith’s expression softened, and Steve suddenly realized that she was happy for him.

Steve took a deep breath. “But it hasn’t been perfect. Far from it. I think it’s my fault. But I’m not even sure what I’m doing wrong.”

“Did you ask her?” Darren said.

The pronoun bothered Steve. He didn’t like feeling like a liar, even in relatively harmless ways, but he answered Darren’s question without correcting him. “No, I’m kind of afraid to.”

Judith said, “Have you asked yourself exactly what you’re afraid of?”

Steve thought about it for several quiet moments before he responded. “I’ve been trying so hard. I don’t know what more I can do. What if I push about it, and that’s it, that’s the end of it. I can’t—” Steve broke off and looked down at his hands. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. That if I push, everything will fall apart.”

The group stayed quiet. Steve knew they were giving him a minute to collect himself, but he’d almost rather they moved on, changed the subject.

“Maybe it’s not a question of doing more,” Judith said. “Maybe it just needs to be _different_ , not _more_.”

Gerald added, “Yeah, it might be something you can do, but you don’t know to do it because you haven’t—”

“Talked about it. Yeah, I get it.” Steve gave Gerald a smile, hoping the interruption wouldn’t set off his temper.

To Steve’s surprise, Gerald smiled back. “I only push so hard about this because I had the same problem. I kept it all in. Once I starting talking, I felt better.”

“And now you never stop talking,” Darren said, and everyone laughed, including Gerald, surprising Steve all over again.

Sam spoke over the fading laughter. “What exactly do you mean by ‘not perfect’?”

“Like I said, things are good, mostly,” Steve said. “At least I thought they were, but then he left, and I—”

Steve froze in his seat. He’d said _he_. He’d forgotten to be vague.

He forced himself to look around the room. There are some surprised expressions, but they quickly faded until it was obvious that everyone was simply waiting for him to continue.

Judith’s calm voice broke the silence: “He left and what?”

Steve was grateful for her steady gaze grounding him. “He left, and he hasn’t been back for a few weeks. He’s done this a couple of times before, and he’s always come back, but I don’t know why he leaves. And I never know where he goes, or how long he’ll be gone.”

“You gotta talk about it,” Gerald said.

The fact that he was right didn’t make Steve any less annoyed by his harping on the point.

“When you say he left, do you mean you live together?” Judith asked.

Steve could feel his cheeks getting warm. “We do, basically, but—I don’t know, that wasn’t even something we talked about and decided. He just never got his own place when he came back. Not that I want him to.”

“It seems like if you live together, that implies a certain level of commitment,” Maggie said. “If you live with someone, it’s not too much to ask for a little consideration. If you’re okay with him leaving when he needs to. . . .”

She let the sentence trail off, and Steve jumped right in. “Of course.”

Judith said, “Maybe you could ask him to tell you when he’ll be back. Or keep in touch in some way so that you don’t worry. That’s not unreasonable.”

“There!” Gerald barked out. “Now you know something specific to talk about.”

“Well, you know how terrible I am at that,” Steve said with a self-deprecating laugh. “And he’s hardly a big talker either.”

There was a wolf whistle from the other side of the room, and then Darren said, “You go, Cap!” When Steve looked at him in astonishment, he winked.

Steve couldn’t help the blush that spread over his face, but it helped to know that even a guy like Darren, with a steady girl and ready to get married, was comfortable enough to joke about the idea of Steve living with another man. He had known it wasn’t like it used to be—he watched the news, and Sam had told him several times that it wasn’t something he needed to hide from the group, but that knowledge was worlds away from experiencing the total lack of shock and disapproval some guilty part of Steve had been fearing.

The discussion kind of fell apart after that, with people cracking jokes and having quiet conversations. Rather than try to restore order when their hour was almost up anyway, Sam just called out, “See you all next week.”

Before leaving the room, Judith made her way back to Steve. He jumped out of his chair to be polite and was surprised to see how tiny she was. She reached up and gave him a quick hard hug around his neck. His blush hadn’t completely faded, and now it came back full force. He was pleased, though, that she felt fond enough of him to make the gesture.

After she’d gone, Sam approached. “I’m proud of you, man.”

“I’m not sure why,” Steve said. “I got upset and it just slipped out.”

“But you stuck it out,” Sam said. “You just kept on going. That’s not nothing.”

Steve stuck his hands in his pockets of his jeans and nodded. Maybe he should give himself a little credit for being brave about this. It was a good step forward. The group now knew about Bucky, if only in the vaguest sense, and they seemed to be pulling for them. And it helped to know that they didn’t think it was unreasonable for Steve to be bothered when Bucky left indefinitely. Steve felt like he was all raw nerves when it came to Bucky, so he’d lost perspective about what should make him worry and what was no big deal.

“You doing okay?” Sam asked.

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just wish he’d come back.”

“I can see that it’s hard for you. I would worry too, if I were you. You gonna talk to him about it?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Yeah, I guess I have to at least try.”

Sam was thoughtful for a long moment. “I guess you gotta decide: is this a deal breaker for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it’s hard when he just ups and leaves,” Sam said. “Is it so hard that you don’t want to keep going?

“You mean not let him come back?” The very idea was horrifying to Steve. “Of course not.”

“Then you gotta figure out a way for both of you to be okay with it if it’s something he needs to keep doing.”

*****

“Keep still,” Bucky said.

Steve was on all fours as Bucky fucked him slowly from behind. He’d taken forever to open Steve up with his fingers and tongue, and Steve was past all patience. “Come on, faster.”

Bucky’s left hand came to rest on the small of Steve’s back, holding him in place, and he moved his hips slowly, relentlessly—he was clearly trying to drive Steve insane.

“Please, Buck. Please?”

“Touch yourself.” Bucky pushed slowly into Steve again. “C’mon, do it.”

Steve was too far gone to be coordinated. He struggled to balance on one hand and wrap the other around his cock.

“Good, that’s good,” Bucky said. “So damn good.”

This was just like it used to be—the murmured encouragements, the desperate orders.

“God, you’re gorgeous. No, c’mon, don’t move. Let me—”

Bucky’s hands clamped down on Steve’s hips, and he fucked Steve hard and fast. It pushed Steve over the edge, and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to. It was all he could do to keep himself propped up as Bucky pounded into him. Bucky followed soon after, his body going taut and his hands like vises on Steve’s hips.

Steve collapsed onto the mattress, and Bucky lowered himself on top of him. He kissed Steve’s neck, then rested his forehead on Steve’s back.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Steve panted out.

Bucky let out a breath that was kind of a laugh. He lifted his head to press a kiss to Steve’s shoulder blade. He started to push up on both hands. “Sorry, I must be crushing you.”

“No, don’t get up.” Steve reached behind him until he could feel Bucky’s skin. At the awkward angle he couldn’t even tell what body part he got his hand on, but the touch was enough to make Bucky resettle his weight for a few more minutes. He was heavy, but it felt good. Not like back when Steve was little and had a hard time breathing when Bucky was on top of him.

After a few minutes, Bucky rolled off onto the mattress. He didn’t go far though, lying on his side next to Steve with one arm resting across his back. Steve turned to face him, enjoying the pull of the strained muscles in his thighs. He knew it wouldn’t last. It was one effect of the serum that Steve hated. He’d always liked how he felt after sex: pleasantly tired, his face and neck rubbed tender by the scrape of Bucky’s beard, and the ghost of an ache where Bucky had been inside him. He didn’t like that the memory of Bucky faded so quickly from his body now. He pulled Bucky’s arm around himself more snugly and fell asleep with his head tucked under Bucky’s chin.

When Steve woke up, Bucky was gone. The lamp on the nightstand had been turned off, but light angled into the dark room from the door. Steve pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded out into the hall. Bucky was in the bathroom. He was looking in the mirror, leaning on the counter with both hands. He didn’t react to Steve’s presence, even though he must have heard him approaching.

“Bucky?”

There was no response for a long time. Long enough that a prickle of fear crept up Steve’s spine. Bucky had been so good lately. He’d only been gone a few days this time, and when he came back, he hadn’t grown distant or withdrawn. He’d walked right into the apartment and greeted Steve with a kiss, just as he used to every day a lifetime ago when he’d come home to their tiny cold-water flat after work. Had Steve let it lull him into a false sense of security? He didn’t want another setback.

Slowly, Steve reached out, put his hand on Bucky’s arm, and said his name again.

Bucky bowed his head and said, “There were bruises.”

“What?”

“I saw bruises on your hip.”

Steve yanked at the waistband of his sweats to reveal a quartet of finger-shaped bruises on his left hip. It brought the moment back intensely: Bucky’s hands clamped down hard, holding his hips, fucking him hard. Steve closed his eyes for a moment, repressing a shudder of pleasure at the memory. He wanted to tell Bucky he’d _liked_ it, but he was pretty sure that wouldn’t help.

He stepped up close and wrapped both arms around Bucky’s waist. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Steve—”

“They’re already almost gone,” Steve said, giving Bucky a squeeze. “You should see them. It’s nothing.”

Bucky shrugged off Steve’s embrace and turned so they were face to face. Steve had no intention of letting Bucky push him away—not when things had been so good lately—so he reached out again to press Bucky against his chest.

Bucky allowed it for just a few moments before he pulled away and said quietly, “I want it off.”

“What?”

“The arm. I can’t—”

“Bucky—”

“I want it gone.”

Bucky looked down at his metal arm like was about to tear it out right that moment. When he spoke again, his voice came out as a growl. “It kills me that I hurt you without even knowing it.”

“You didn’t, Buck. It didn’t even—”

“I _did_. I shot you. And stabbed you. I tried to kill you. I _wanted_ to kill you. I—”

“That wasn’t you.”

Bucky tried to wrench away, but Steve held on tight.

“It _was_ ,” Bucky said. “It was me. Jesus, Steve, I—”

“But I forgive you, so will you stop already?” Steve said it in annoyance, just wanting Bucky to quit blaming himself, but his expression cracked open. He looked up at Steve with tears in his eyes, and Steve’s irritation evaporated. He’d never thought to say it, because none of it was Bucky’s fault, but he should have—should have said anything he could think of to relieve Bucky’s guilt, however misplaced.

He pulled Bucky into a crushing hug. Bucky hugged him back just as tightly, but with only one arm. He let his left arm dangle at his side.

“This is why I leave,” Bucky said into Steve’s shoulder. “I only come when I can’t stand not to. If I hurt you again I won’t be able to stand it. I just—I need it off.”

“Okay.” Steve kissed Bucky’s temple. “Okay. But we’ve got to do it right. That means calling in the experts. Doctors. I want you to be safe.”

Bucky hesitated, then nodded jerkily.

“We’ll get started on it first thing in the morning,” Steve said.

After one more kiss, he pulled Bucky back to bed, spooning up behind him. He was calmer now—not the unnatural calm of the Soldier, but a kind of quiet, exhausted relief.

He’d seemed to expect Steve to argue with him about removing the arm, but it was Bucky’s decision. The arm was beautiful, in its own way, and if Steve had had any doubts that it was safe, he’d have tried to convince Bucky to get it taken off a hell of a lot sooner. But the psychological effects—that was a different story. And if getting rid of it would help? Steve was all for it. Bucky had made a choice, and Steve wouldn’t stand in his way.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t leave. Not tonight.”

As silent seconds ticked by, Steve knew he shouldn’t have pushed. But then Bucky’s hand rose to cover Steve’s where it rested on Bucky’s belly, and he finally answered, his voice almost too quiet to hear: “Okay.”

**The End**

(For now—I’m working on a third part!)


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